


The Heart of Life

by joss80



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e22 No Good Deed, Episode: s02e06 The High Road, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joss80/pseuds/joss80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of their relationship through the years. Loosely inspired by <a href="http://s259.beta.photobucket.com/user/AprilValentine_bucket/media/MEandCP.jpg.html">this picture</a> and loosely related to my other fic (inspired by the same photo) <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/568619">here</a>.<br/>Originally posted on LJ Sept 20, 2012</p><p>Note: This was originally written post-ep 1.22 No Good Deed. I've updated the first two vignettes slightly to reflect Grace and Harold's canon meeting in ep 2.06 The High Road</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of Life

2006

The sun shone blindingly down from the sky, stark and brilliant in the clear and chilly mid-winter day. A painter sat gazing out towards the Hudson River, her easel set up in front of her. The riverfront walkway was more deserted than usual, the cold air beckoning people to hurry on rather than to sit and stay a while. She appeared to be quite lost in her work, her brush swirling over the canvas in vivid green and grey hues, until she sensed someone watching her from a few feet away. She tensed up, on alert, fully intending to give any weirdoes the stink eye if needed.

"Hello," the stranger greeted her.

She turned slowly, then relaxed visibly as she saw the man. 

"Hello," she greeted him back with a smile. Then what she saw made her break out into light, lilting laughter, the sound bubbling up from her chest and bursting out of her more conspicuously than she'd intended. She threw a hand over her mouth quickly to cover it and blushed, her face seemingly trying to match the deep crimson hue of her hair.

Ice cream! It was all of 39 degrees outside and he was eating _ice cream?_

The brown-haired man adjusted his glasses nervously. Then he smiled shyly at her and extended his hand towards her, holding up the cone.

“Want some?” he asked, taking her by surprise. “There’s a food cart just up at the main road. I could get you one.”

She didn’t know quite what to say to that so she kept quiet, still hiding her mouth behind a gloved hand.

“It’s no problem,” he added as an afterthought.

“No, no, I’m okay... thanks,” she replied, smiling back at him. “Sorry, I just... you were watching me and then... the ice cream, and it’s so cold.”

“I was admiring your painting,” he corrected her gently. ”I’m terribly sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Then, “I could get you something hot to drink if you’d prefer.”

“No, really, it’s okay,” she insisted, rubbing her hands together unconsciously. “You were admiring my painting?”

“Yes,” the man’s smile deepened, and he moved slightly closer to her. “I’m Harold,” he said, switching the ice cream cone to his left hand and extending his now-empty right one. She grasped his hand eagerly with hers and shook it, the formal gesture of good will and good intentions meaning a lot to her on an otherwise bleak and lonely day.

“Grace,” she said, her heart doing a slight flutter while hoping to goodness that he wasn’t some sort of psycho stalker.

*

2008

It was a glorious day, the sun’s warm rays enveloping her in a cocoon of contentment as she lay on a blanket at the riverside park. That morning she had woken up to breakfast in bed, and after Harold had (strangely) resisted her advances she had donned a trench coat-style gray dress that left both a lot and little to the imagination at the same time. No underwear, but he hadn’t know that at the time. They had gone shopping for food for their picnic lunch, and on the walk to the park she had told him just how little she was actually wearing. At that point she had half expected him to hustle them back to their house instead of to the park, but he had kept going with a sense of purpose, the brown paper grocery bag grasped firmly in his right hand.

She hadn’t noticed the ring box in his pocket until they were standing by the river, right near the spot where they had first met.

“I remember the first time I laid eyes on you here,” he had said wistfully, pulling her to a stop next to him. “You were in the middle of that gorgeous landscape painting, and it was freezing cold, and I think I freaked you out a bit.”

“Just a bit,” she teased, “but I’m not complaining,” she had added, kissing his cheek resolutely as if settling the matter.

He had looked at her seriously then, the emotion in his eyes quite taking her breath away. “These past two and a half years have been the happiest of my life, Grace. You complete me.”

She had almost melted right there, echoing his sentiment back to him with words and hugs and kisses. The strange circumstances of their first meeting had turned into something wonderful beyond belief for her. She had gained her confidence as an artist back, she had gained confidence in herself back. She had discovered what it meant to be loved truly and unconditionally.

And she had felt it then, the corner of something hard poking into her left thigh as she hugged him. She drew back, but he was already on his way to his knees and pulling the box out of his pocket. The words he had spoken next were a blur to her, almost eclipsed by the emotions that had surged and were still running rampant through her body an hour later as she lay on the blanket.

She gazed idly at the ring on her left hand as it sparkled in the sunlight, the unfamiliar feeling of the metal band a welcome one as she turned her attention to her man who was methodically taking food items out of the paper bag and placing them on the blanket.

“Fiancée.” She tried the word out on her tongue. “I like the sound of that.”

He smiled at her over his glasses, and it seemed like all the love in the world was hers and at her fingertips.

“You’re a sneaky one, sweetheart,” she grinned back at him. “You planned this whole thing down to a T and I had no idea whatsoever.”

“A hidden talent, my dear,” he said, finishing with the food and handing her a fork and a plate, “and I hope to show you some of my other better-known talents as soon as we’re back home.”

“Now just how am I supposed to eat after a comment like that?” she frowned, swatting at him playfully with her hand.

*

2010

She cracked the door open and stepped tentatively inside. It smelled the same, it looked the same, but it wasn’t. Harold wasn’t here anymore.

That thought alone almost brought her to her knees in tears. She lurched for the box of Kleenex in her living room and, grabbing one, blew her nose loudly.

 _“Damnit!!”_ she yelled as loudly as she could, her voice breaking. Nobody cared. Nobody was here to hear it.

_"Damnit! Damnit! Damnit! Damnit!”_

The past two weeks had been almost unbearable, the process of memorial planning and urn-choosing and trying to put on a brave front for people had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally. Harold had made some parts easier even in death, his meticulous planning and foresight allowing for her not to worry about a few things, their side-by-side urn plots having been purchased only a few months ago (luckily) and an associate of his helping to tie up loose financial ends of which there didn’t seem to be too many. He had named her the sole beneficiary in his will, and she knew all the money in the world couldn’t bring him back.

There were only a handful of people at his memorial service, and afterwards she had stayed with her sister in Brooklyn for a while. It was just too painful to go back to the house without him. She had so many questions about the accident but her head was foggy from grief and her brain could barely formulate sentences let alone ponder the circumstances surrounding the worst day of her life.

Her eyes settled on a framed photo of them, the one taken the evening of their engagement. She flipped it upside down and muttered a “sorry” in its general direction. She just couldn’t face seeing that picture right now, when they were so carefree and had all the time in the world.

She didn’t know how she’d face their bedroom.

_Perhaps she could just sleep downstairs on the couch tonight._

*

2012

_Detective Stills._

She was still shaking her head over his visit this morning, grateful that there was no problem but wondering at the source of the phone call to the police. She had watched him leave through her living room window, his long purposeful gait taking him into the park to meet up with someone she assumed was another of New York’s Finest. They were too far off for her to tell.

He had seemed nice enough, _interested_ even in her art and in the photo of her and Harold.

She sighed. She knew it was natural to wonder what might have been if he was still alive, but the frequency with which the thoughts still assailed her left her heart aching more and more often than she cared to admit.

She wondered if part of it was the fact that she hadn’t been able to say goodbye to him. The accident had taken him so suddenly, and the coroner had already confirmed his identity and begun an autopsy by the time she made it to the hospital. It had all happened very quickly, and everyone had tried to spare her the anguish of looking at Harold’s brutalized remains.

She didn’t get to say goodbye in life, and she didn’t get to say goodbye in death. There were times when it still seemed so surreal, as if he could still be alive, but she ever didn’t let herself think like that for too long. It was too dangerous an emotional path.

Grace looked down at the pile of magazines that the detective had kindly brought inside and sighed again, wondering what Harold would have thought of her illustrations.

It was definitely time for a cup of tea. Sencha green, perhaps, for Harold.


End file.
